


Desperation

by Destielschild



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Croatoan/Endverse, Angst, Endverse, M/M, Rough Sex, The End, Vague mentions of prostitute!cas, but not really sad, do not worry my friends, kinda sad, not terribly explicit sorry I suck at writing porn, sad!fic, very vague, what even are tags
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-22
Updated: 2014-03-22
Packaged: 2018-01-16 13:05:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,380
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1348522
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Destielschild/pseuds/Destielschild
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There's something wild about mankind, a desperation that threatens to tear them apart, and yet could bring them together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Desperation

**Author's Note:**

  * For [darkforetold](https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/gifts).



> This is just something I wrote for you dear, it's nothing like your work, but I just wanted to try and give back a little. Thank you for all the amazing works, they have impacted me so deeply. I hope you like it, and if you have any criticism I'd love to hear from you :)

So this is desperation.

It feels different than Castiel had thought it would, years back when he was still an angel.

Different, and yet, there had always been a desperation in mankind. Lurking just beneath the surface, something raw, feral even. And with desperation comes pay, which they could all use more of.

A harsh laugh escaped Castiel's chapped lips, dry and cracked, not soft and warm as it used to be. The sound bounced off the walls of the dingy ally as he sat in the grime. What would Dean think of him, he wondered silently. Dean had changed. No, Dean was _gone_. All that remained was a beaten and broken shell of the man he once loved. Grabbing the side of the dumpster beside him, he stood on shaking legs. It never gets any easier, whoring yourself for your next meal, not knowing if you will even live to see tomorrow, he thought wearily. Picking up his poor excuse for a jacket he stuffed his hand in the pocket, digging around for his pay. He found five dollars. So much for his next meal. Pulling his filthy slacks up next, he winced slightly. Every time he did this, he lost a little bit more of himself. Shuffling out of the ally he started to make his way home, stopping only when he saw his reflection in the cracked window of an abandoned shop. His blue eyes were dull and tired, hard edges had replaced soft muscle, his clothing was torn and hung loosely off his small frame, and the hopelessness that flooded his heart was written all too clearly on his stubbled face.

Angrily he picked up a rock and shattered the window, washing his reflection away with the falling shards of glass. Falling. Now that's something he can relate to. The pain of knowing his life is but a grain of sand in the hourglass of time, his former glory now just a faded memory. When he lost his wings, he lost himself. He became jaded, and the innocence he once treasured was now a source of unrelenting shame.

Another laugh, just as harsh, just as hollow.

Backing away from the window he turned and started to run. Running from the pain, running from the hurt. The endless nights of nothingness swallowed by the burn of bare feet on gravel. Not stopping to glance at the sadness all around him, the gaunt faces that mirrored his own, ducking through the fence, past lake Chitaqua, past more shacks that only held despair, he ran until his lungs screamed for air.

Blinking a few times, he realized he had ground to a halt in front of Dean's shack. If you could call it that. In reality, it was a glorified dump, with broken windows, curtains that were really just garbage bags taped over the frames, and floorboards that looked like they could cave at any moment.

But still, he had come to think of it as a second home, however unpleasant the circumstances. Carefully making his way up the old porch steps, he raised his fist to knock - a motion interrupted by the door flinging open to reveal an irritated blonde, clutching her clothes to her chest, wearing only a bra and underwear. Pushing past him she yelled obscenities behind her. A sheepish looking Dean now stood in the doorway.

"Hey Cas."

Dean looked older, more tired than Castiel had remembered him. Years of leadership had calloused him in many ways, but he still brightened slightly at the sight of the former angel. But it was a broken brightness, worn down and corroded, in eyes that had seen too much loss to love. His clothes were torn too, but not as badly as Castiel's, and his tanned skin, despite the dirt, was still the same as he had remembered it. Too soon they would have to go to Detroit, too soon it would all be over, a plan that was less of a plan and more of a suicide mission, but until then he wanted to make the most of his time with Dean. Surging forward, he wrapped his arms around the hunter's strong neck. He smelled like tobacco and sweat, but Castiel didn't mind. Dean briefly returned the hug before gruffly telling Cas he smelled horrible and begrudgingly inviting him in for a shower.

The interior of the shack wasn't much better than the outside, with clothes and maps strewn about the room and a hard mattress in the corner. A worn  rectangular table in the middle of the room served dually as a place to eat and plan. But at least it was one of the only places to have a shower, though the water pressure was a joke. Dean went over to look at one of the maps, pulling a pack of beer out of the cooler beside the table, and motioned behind him to the small room just off the main one.

"Shower's in there Cas, don't use all the water."

Castiel walked quickly over to the cramped room and shut the door. Stripping off his clothes he threw them in the old yellow tub before climbing in himself. The spray of the water felt refreshing, even if it was muggy. Attempting to scrub the stains out of his clothes could wait. He briefly wondered if Dean would one day acknowledge how much he needed him, but shook his head to himself as he washed the mud out of his messy dark hair. Not likely.

Dean has this habit of denying things and repressing his feelings, and it gets in the way of his relationships. Sam consumes his thought life, which in turn leads to anger and he often takes it out on Cas, yelling and screaming. Even throwing things. But he patiently suffers through, calmly waiting for Dean to finish his ranting before attempting to sooth him in the only way he knows how. Because despite everything, part of him will always love Dean.

Slowly turning off the water, he slips into the towel hanging off the side of the sink and walks out.

"Hello Dean." His voice is quiet, but still rumbles like the roar of the impala Dean once loved.

Dean turns, expressionless, but his eyes betray him. Castiel can feel his gaze, piercing and heavy, raking over his body. Any attempt to make himself look bigger is pitiful, the reality of starvation hitting him hard. But Dean doesn't seem to mind, striding up to him with purpose as he grabs Cas's bottom lip between his teeth, drawing blood, and forces his tongue into Castiel's mouth. "You taste like shit, buddy." He groans out between sloppy kisses. Flipping them around, he shoves Cas down onto the hard mattress, hardly noticing that they had moved across the room. Lips crash in a battle for dominance, but there is an undeniably empty feeling. "Dean" Cas pleads, rutting shamelessly against the hunter, making him stifle a moan. It's wild, it's desperate, it's anything but love. Dean sits back on his heels as he quickly strips himself before collapsing hungrily on the former angel. Dean's hand is soon working him open, something that takes almost no time due to his occupation, and then he's pushing in. Giving almost no time for Cas to adjust, his thrusts are demanding and quick. Cas's hand reaches down to stroke himself, but Dean pushes it away, speeding up and making Cas squirm in pleasure. It's greedy, it's animalistic, it's just a shadow of what they once were. Feeling the heat coil in his gut, Cas gives himself over to it, choking back a sob and knowing full well that as he does, it's like falling again. Falling, and everything in him screams run, but there is nowhere to run. Despite the rumble of his stomach and the knowledge that tomorrow he will be back on the street, he needs Dean. It will kill him, he knows, but he can't bring himself to care. Dean follows not long after and their panting is hard and fast as they lay side by side. There is no cuddling, no soft words or kisses. That's all they are, he supposes. Two broken men in the wild pursuit of something more.

So  _this_ is desperation.


End file.
